Jaadugar: A Witch in Mongolia is a one-of-a-kind effort in historical and cultural accuracy in TV anime, but also smart enough to introduce pointed, imaginative deceit to make for a more compelling story. Let’s delve into such a unique production!
Chances are that you first heard about Jaadugar: A Witch in Mongolia as framed through the lens of its historical accuracy, emphasized to a degree seldom seen in TV anime. There is no conversation about the series that doesn’t underline the presence of several cultural advisors, despite that approach greatly increasing the back-and-forths for approval; no collection of anecdotes that doesn’t mention how the desire to feature authentic speech led to hiring two Mongolian sumo wrestlers as voice actors; and just as importantly, no shortage of viewers happy to see their heritage in anime, in ways commercial works will rarely bother with. The team has proved their carefulness in the depiction of both Persian and Mongol societies, and beyond that, a genuine interest in learning about their customs and beliefs.
Its creators’ respect for the cultures depicted in the series isn’t just something they’ve been protecting inwards, but also a stance that the project has projected toward the audience. After all, one of the biggest promotional efforts leading up to the broadcast was a handful of interviews with its series directors during their location trip to Mongolia. While the brief introduction in Tus was sustained by remote research, both about 13th-century Persia and modern-day Iran, the production team actually made a trip to the location where the bulk of the story occurs. Accuracy and respect were always on their mind, and they want viewers to know that as well.
Chief director Naoko Yamada’s duties have changed ever since she became a freelance creator, but one aspect she’ll never compromise on is rooting stories in the physical realities of people. In an interview for Mantan (available translated over at Magical Stage), she pointed out that it doesn’t matter whether a narrative is fantastical or set in a different time period—she must find a way to ground them in people’s actual lives and environments. Despite not being permanently stationed at a physical studio anymore, she happily took the time to make this scouting trip to Mongolia. This particular pre-production stage has never been all that common, and the ready availability of visual materials only renders it unnecessary to the eyes of many, but the likes of Yamada will never leave it behind.
Alongside her was up-and-coming series directorSeries Director: (監督, kantoku): The person in charge of the entire production, both as a creative decision-maker and final supervisor. They outrank the rest of the staff and ultimately have the last word. Series with different levels of directors do exist however – Chief Director, Assistant Director, Series Episode Director, all sorts of non-standard roles. The hierarchy in those instances is a case by case scenario. Abel Góngora, who has echoed similar feelings about the importance of keeping a tangible core built upon personal experiences. In his interview for Animate Times, shared in English by the Kyodo News portal, he emphasized all the aspects you simply must feel first-hand if you want to evoke them in animation; conceptual ones like people’s daily routines and their specific struggles, but also sensorial information like the smells, tastes, and the sheer impact of witnessing the vast steppe. In summary, all that you won’t get by simply reading books on the topic. Given his worry about honoring the cultures that this story revolves around, he found it particularly important to maintain realistic foundations, despite Jaadugar’s cartoony aesthetic.
Although we’ve focused on the leaders of the TV anime adaptation, it goes without saying that the deference to the cultures being portrayed is an attitude inherited from Tomato Soup’s original manga. Her detailed research involves reading up on the works of historians from various countries, visiting museums, as well as direct consultations about specific details. Although this process is fueled by her long-held interests in cultures like the Mongols, there is also her awareness as a foreign entity borrowing from other cultures to entertain a similarly disconnected audience; which is to say, that she wants to avoid making a mockery of the people she represents at any cost. For all her convictions, that’s easier said than done—speaking to Animate Times, she noted that the endless questioning by the anime team about the nuance of her intent made her realize a few chronological inaccuracies, as well as minute cultural aspects she’d never considered before. It’s only through combined efforts and respect that Jaadugar has become a beautiful crystallization of ancient Persia and Mongol.
The statements by everyone involved paint a picture of a series very dedicated to historical accuracy, and the results of their efforts demonstrate they’re not all talk. If you were to reduce Jaadugar to an objective retelling of history, though, you would be doing this series a disservice. This is not to say that a documentary-like stance is inherently less compelling, but dispassionate objectivity wouldn’t align with the directors’ sensibilities, and framing it as such would obscure very interesting aspects of this team’s mindset. It goes without saying that historical fiction isn’t factual—half the term tells you that—but striving for accuracy to this degree can make people forget that fundamental truth.
It’s in the ways one weaves reality with compelling lies that you learn the most about artists in this genre space. In that regard, a conversation between Yamada and Tomato Soup published by Souffle is perhaps the most revealing. The author reveals that writing historical works makes you seek as many factual records as possible, but paradoxically, an excess of information can become a hindrance as a storyteller. When it comes to somewhat modern history, the awareness that you’ll find countless detailed testimonies means you can’t take a single step without exhaustive research. Ultimately, you’re left with little room to create a compelling story of your own. On the other hand, looking back at medieval periods strikes a nice balance between the availability of information and the appeal of the unknown and uncontrasted. It’s in those gaps that Yamada believes the author has created some of Jaadugar’s most wonderful characters.
Given that appreciation, it’s no surprise that the team behind the anime was also prepared to escape from cold, objective facts whenever they thought it would benefit the story. Speaking to Indiewire, both series directors brought up one such example. Their cultural advisors rightfully pushed back against their desire to feature someone smoking in the background of the bustling Tus introduction, as that wouldn’t be true to the time period. While they understood that, Yamada argued that strolling through a bazaar in modern-day Iran would be synonymous with witnessing people smoking shisha on the ground. This idea was ultimately discarded, but it has become an example of their willingness to pull anachronistic tricks to reinforce the familiarity of the story for all viewers.
For a different type of concession to fantasy, Yoko Kuno‘s gorgeous opening features the type of surreally beautiful colors that wouldn’t normally fit the show’s more grounded palette.
In its own way, the anime’s distinct aesthetic is also the product of a delicate process of combining true-to-life concepts and tactical lies. Tomato Soup’s Osamu Tezuka-inspired artwork is deliberately flat and farcical, in a way that overly realistic renderings would erode the charm. How did they navigate that, then, as a team who desired to emphasize the authenticity as well? In an interview for WIRED alongside Góngora, Yamada talks about drawing inspiration from relevant cultural artifacts like Persian & Islamic miniatures and ancient Mongolian paintings, which directly anchor the show in its real setting. Conversely, Góngora points out other ingredients (like Toei Douga’s Wanpaku Ouji) when it came to putting together the earthen, muted, vintage colors that evoke a historical atmosphere. Be it through direct references or these tricks that help viewers make connections, the desire to create a world that feels real—even when it factually isn’t—remains the same.
One of the trickiest aspects to balance when bringing the setting to life was the world itself. Following the aforementioned guidelines, WIT color designerColor Designer (色彩設定/色彩設計, Shikisai Settei/Shikisai Sekkei): The person establishing the show’s overall palette. Episodes have their own color coordinator (色指定, Iroshitei) in charge of supervising and supplying painters with the model sheets that particular outing requires, which they might even make themselves if they’re tones that weren’t already defined by the color designer. Narumi Konno and ex-KyoAni/ufotable art directorArt Director (美術監督, bijutsu kantoku): The person in charge of the background art for the series. They draw many artboards that once approved by the series director serve as reference for the backgrounds throughout the series. Coordination within the art department is a must – setting and color designers must work together to craft a coherent world. Yuri Kabasawa have spearheaded an effort that succeeds at evoking the right time period and cultures. But what about the more physical aspect of those settings? Their starting point was Tomato Soup’s drawings, with their aforementioned flatness and visibly artificial space. Although you could tackle them in straightforward fashion, a team interested in showcasing how people live ought to place them in an environment where it feels like they could go on with their daily routine—something that demands a degree of three-dimensionality. Jaadugar’s answer, then, is to commit to neither fundamental understanding of space and instead go back and forth between flatness and believable spaciousness as it sees fit. This places a burden on individual episode directors to nail the balance, but we wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t done a great job with that.
That duality is also present in the character designs themselves, which does facilitate the back and forth. As seen in this IGN India piece, articulating the characters in a believable way was the biggest worry for Kazuki Endo as he sought a team to animate Jaadugar. As the TV Asahi producer explains, the simple-looking style may look like it makes the animation process easier… but that potential is also tied to the tremendous challenge of deriving fluid, compelling character acting out of such stylized forms. With designs featuring a higher level of detail and humanlike proportions, our brain will happily fill the gaps that TV animation inevitably has, allowing us to read basic character animation as actions we see in the real world. When you articulate Jaadugar’s clearly farcical designs, though, that bar for the suspension of disbelief raises exponentially. Endo was afraid that conventional studios wouldn’t be up for this challenge, so he took the proposal to Science Saru, as they were used to animating unorthodox designs. Fortunately for him, not only were they interested in the series, but also happened to be Tomato Soup’s dream studio.
Another highlight of Kuno’s opening is the chorus cuts. Albeit animated by Hiroki Uchiyama here, they’re conceptually reminiscent of Kuno’s student and independent work back in the day; defined by sepia tones and bewitching morphing, just like her old music videos used to be.
Who did they entrust with this tricky job, then? None other than Kenichi Yoshida, a Ghibli-trained titan best known for his exquisite designs on the likes of Eureka Seven, King Gainer, or G-Reco. His attitude made him immediately compatible with the job; and not only because he has been interested in the Mongol Empire since he was a child, though that certainly helps. Speaking to Mantan (again, translated at Magical Stage), Yamada emphasizes just how much research Yoshida does, even for the most minute choices as a character designer. Back during the release of Orbital Children, Mitsuo Iso went as far as calling Yoshida one of the few remaining true designers in anime. Which is to say, someone who won’t simply draw a few reference sheets, but carefully consider how every choice interacts with the narrative and other departments of the production process.
As Yoshida explained to Mantan, that meticulous mindset brought him to research items of clothing like turbans and hijab; not only how they’re constructed and the ways they’re worn in a vacuum, but also how that appearance might change depending on the current circumstances of the character—you certainly don’t dress yourself the same way in your everyday life and when you’re a war prisoner. Just like everyone else on the team, Yoshida combined these authentic ideas with the right amount of liberties to facilitate Jaadugar’s goals. This includes making its production somewhat easier too: we’ve mentioned how the producer at the origin of the project worried about articulating the stumpy designs in human-like fashion, and as Góngora reveals in his aforementioned Animate Times feature, Yoshida tweaked their proportions for that purpose. While it’s subtle enough you may not have noticed, the Jaadugar anime features slightly more elongated, taller human bodies, bringing them closer to the forms that animators find familiar.
After all, this process of taking liberties doesn’t simply amount to the occasional departure from factual history, but also to knowing when to distance yourself from the source material. Mind you, this doesn’t mean contradicting it, but rather confronting its ideas and reinforcing certain themes. Jaadugar is the story of Sitara’s rise as an increasingly powerful aide in the Mongol Empire; the very same that ravaged her home in Tus, killed many of her loved ones, and forcefully dragged her to foreign environments. Themes like revenge are built into that premise, but at the same time, we can’t forget that Sitara already was a slave in the household that took her in after her mother’s death.
In their research, the creators behind Jaadugar found that slavery has manifested itself in rather different forms across history. Ancient Persia may have been open to adopting individuals as a true member of a family, something that slight tweaks in the anime like the double premiere underline with more effectivity. And yet, there’s no denying she was part of an asymmetrical, restrictive dynamic that limited her personhood, hence why Góngora’s proposed theme of freedom feels particularly apt.
We see that emphasis on freedom before Mongol-shaped tragedy strikes. In fact, it’s one of the first things we witness, as Jaadugar #01 opens with an original scene where Sitara runs around Tus, trying to escape from her captors. First by the hand of Shuto Enomoto—the individual behind certain outstanding efforts at Saru—and later through the lively drawings of surprise guest Yuki Hayashi as she once again tries to flee, we experience that duality of space we talked about earlier. Jaadugar can switch from flat renderings that emphasize the symmetrical nature of the architecture to spacious, lived-in spaces with astonishing naturality. The first quest across this layered setting leads to Sitara watching flocks of birds take flight, signaling not just the beginning of the story but the desire for freedom that feels key to Góngora.
Given that we have a duality of series directors, it’s worth addressing the specificities of their roles, and why it was Góngora who storyboarded and directed (with the assistance of his close associate Takuya Fujikura) episode #01. In short, he was the one who first accepted the pitch to direct Jaadugar. At that point, Yamada had wrapped up The Colors Within, so the studio wanted to find a new project to continue borrowing her talents. When she heard that Góngora had gotten his hands on Jaadugar, a series that greatly appeals to her sensibilities, she proactively wormed her way into the project. Yamada took a supportive stance as the director who arrived ever so slightly later, deciding to foster Góngora’s imagination rather than restricting it with her own vision. As she jokingly summarizes, she took the position of Góngora’s personal cheerleader for Jaadugar.
Her assignment as chief director while Góngora stayed as the regular project leader translated into Yamada focusing more on structural, writing-related duties, while he commanded the operations in the trenches. We should mention, though, that this isn’t a perfectly clean binary of conceptual choices versus day-to-day audiovisual execution—nothing is ever that simple within a real production. The directors pointed out as much in the WIRED interview we referred to earlier, and the fact that we’ve started examining the series through a theme that Góngora chose demonstrates it as well.
Beyond the grand statements of purpose, Góngora’s storyboardStoryboard (絵コンテ, ekonte): The blueprints of animation. A series of usually simple drawings serving as anime’s visual script, drawn on special sheets with fields for the animation cut number, notes for the staff and the matching lines of dialogue. More for the first episode is also impressive in its subtler additions. Sitara’s first meeting with Muhammad is an important beat in the story, but at the same time, it’s also a fun interaction between two kids with a punchline in the form of him being flustered about her uncovered hair. While in the manga he’s talking about her headdress not covering her in full, the anime builds into that idea of the characters existing in a physical, real space, making her lose it altogether as she sneaks around.
Another excellent quality exhibited all across the first episode is the subtle three-dimensionality of the designs. This is an aspect that stood out as early as the promotional videos, and something the directors have since then effusively praised Yoshida for. Under his exclusive supervision, the premiere imbues all drawings with a sense of volume, but never betrays the simple silhouettes and flat appeal of Tomato Soup’s original work. It’s a fine line to thread, but he manages to make clearly farcical characters feel like they truly exist in a world, especially as the anime fleshes out everyone’s daily lives in Tus.
For as amazing as most aspects are, this introduction to the story also showcases the concessions the team had to make. Jaadugar is, maybe above all else, synonymous with patterns. Thematically, the intricate ornaments and lavish architecture convey the richness of the civilizations that are being portrayed. And just as importantly, the act of reading the series is akin to being hypnotized by the endlessly repeating shapes. The author’s simple style helps the drawings never become exhausting, but there’s something deeply mesmerizing about a world densely packed with culturally important shapes. While the anime is aware of how much this matters, the much hazier rendering of the world through Kabasawa’s art direction doesn’t have the same magnetic appeal. Similarly, and clearly related to the limitations of a production we’ll discuss later, clothes aren’t adorned in quite the same way.
Mind you, that is perfectly understandable. Introducing highly-detailed clothing into a project, especially when patterns are inescapable, greatly increases everyone’s workload. Although you can approach a challenge like that from multiple angles, none of them makes the downsides magically disappear. It goes without saying that excruciatingly drawing them by hand burdens the entire production line, from every step of the animation process to the departments that have to process their work, such as the painting team. This very season, we have a great example of that challenge in Sparks of Tomorrow, which partly roots the Meiji era aspect of the setting in everyone having their own—often multiple—distinct kimono with fully animated motifs. For as effective as that is in reinforcing the story’s identity, it has also made veterans at the studio note that it was an exhausting task even for a powerhouse like theirs, which effectively puts it outside the scope of TV anime.
To bypass that, many TV anime have traditionally opted for overlaying patterns that aren’t baked into the animation itself. Digital pipelines make this act trivial, but that doesn’t mean it becomes seamless with ease. Unless it’s perfectly fine-tuned anytime they’re on-screen, the separation between two clearly distinct layers in the clothes introduces a level of irreality to every single shot; that’s exactly what makes Gankutsuou one of the most fascinating anime ever made, but that level of swag might not be legal in the current era. Opting for a more believable angle instead, Jaadugar maintains these shapes in the character cels, simplifying them enough to make the animation process feasible.
One of the relative downsides of their concessions arrives alongside the Mongol invasion in episode #02. In a comic so dominated by these omnipresent patterns, their sacking of Tus is synonymous with the destruction of all shapes that defined the civilization that flourished there. Within an adaptation that is aware of this aspect but couldn’t afford to be equally thorough, the impact of that cultural annihilation isn’t quite as potent. Without getting too ahead of ourselves, this continues to be weaponized moving forward; Sitara understandably holds prejudices against her captors, but her view of them as savages is challenged in a fascinating way by the fact that she eventually witnesses Mongol clothing and interior patterns that are just as lavish as those seen in Tus. Again, the lesser prevalence in the anime reduces the meaningful impact of that reveal. To make up for that, though, the human component is arguably enhanced—after all, it’s finally time for Yamada to co-direct and storyboardStoryboard (絵コンテ, ekonte): The blueprints of animation. A series of usually simple drawings serving as anime’s visual script, drawn on special sheets with fields for the animation cut number, notes for the staff and the matching lines of dialogue. More an episode.
It’s no secret that, as a storyteller, Yamada always opts to frame narratives through character lenses. Jaadugar is a story about incomprehensibly large empires, about atrocities at such a scale that they physically impacted the planet. And yet, it’s specifically the story of Sitara and those who most closely surround her, which is the angle Yamada unsurprisingly chose to emphasize. Although the presentation of episode #02 is occasionally more grand than you’d expect from her (see the dramatic drops of blood when both her new family and their beloved books are taken away), the sense of intimacy when she’s at her lowest oozes Yamada’s touch. The clumsy but heartfelt attempt to console her, animated by Saru regular Eitetsu, is easily among the highlights of a very affecting episode.
Yamada’s means of conveying the heartbreak are particularly interesting, as she finds herself in an environment that encourages her to flex different stylistic muscles than usual. She has noted that her usual approach to frame animation as if it were shot through a camera lens wouldn’t fit the style of the series, and being more of a supportive presence than the leader she often is, she preferred not to stir the boat. Instead, the interiority of characters and their mood is projected by stylistic choices in realms other than the compositing. A particularly striking characteristic is the choices of color across episode #02; in contrast to the lively yet earthen Tus we’d seen so far, the palette after the destruction and when she becomes a war prisoner turns much more vivid than before. It’s a cruel, natural allure that reminds Sitara there is beauty in this world, even when she can no longer perceive it.
Perhaps the most obvious shift in Yamada’s toolset is the way Jaadugar portrays light. It’s worth prefacing this by saying that the production employs digital effects just like any other show, and it occasionally does so with exceptional grace. That said, it’s also a title where much of the expression of lighting falls upon cel layers, making it part of the drawings themselves. Yamada embraces this approach and grants it resonance; the final moments of a comrade’s fading life are defined by the sunset, one she wishes she could have experienced once more in very different circumstances.
The following episode, this time led by episode director and storyboarder Yujirou Abe, continues to use the show’s distinct lighting in pointed ways. Its introduction links it to the power of Genghis Khan, and even more clearly, those cel rays accompany the arrival of his mightiest son. Tolui is the youngest prince, yet he commands the strongest military forces, having recently been the leader behind Tus’ sacking. His dazzling arrival, in contrast to the more grounded depiction of the siblings awaiting him, underlines that he appears to be the empire’s crown jewel.
Sitara’s first exposure to the inner machinations of the empire gestures toward the incredible scope that the story gradually adopts, but #03 is by all means a breather after an intense double premiere. Spurred by history’s first LinkedIn user Shira, a fellow captive, Sitara adopts her master’s name Fatima and vows to recover the stolen book. She’ll pretend to lower her head and loan her talents to her captors, but all she desires is getting back at the empire that took everything from her. While she silences her rage, the show introduces someone who fruitlessly voices the exact same animosity. This person is Töregene, sixth wife of unassuming prince Ögedei, and her relationship with Sitara will end up being the most important bond in the entire show.
For now, however, this is indeed a more relaxed episode where the big narrative swing takes a backseat to certain themes. Above all else, it emphasizes the importance of cultural exchange, as well as how different groups of people have historically processed similar information in their own ways. Despite her hatred for the empire, Sitara is eager to learn their language and customs, which quickly become weapons to climb within their society. Conversely, the brutal Mongol also contain the likes of Tolui’s first wife Sorghaghtani, who understands that their rise to power is an opportunity to acquire the vast knowledge from all the territories they’ve conquered.
A recurring topic in Jaadugar, as we’ll see in future episodes, is the struggle against mortality. The inescapability of death and our stance regarding that universal truth are explored by various cultures in the series, with episode #03 featuring the visit of a supposedly immortal eastern sage. Speaking with an Uyghur individual, Sitara ends up sharing a story she once read, with the moral that one should wish for a healthy death rather than immortality. In response, the man reveals that the sage had told him that he wasn’t actually immortal, and that he shouldn’t be—both cultures had reached the same conclusion. This is all rendered in a particularly memorable way, as Sitara’s fable becomes a cut-out animation tale drawn by Ryoko Tanaka. Like many other neat aspects of the aesthetic, this draws direct influence from period-appropriate arc, but also introduces compelling lies to be more effective with a modern audience.
Abe’s storyboardStoryboard (絵コンテ, ekonte): The blueprints of animation. A series of usually simple drawings serving as anime’s visual script, drawn on special sheets with fields for the animation cut number, notes for the staff and the matching lines of dialogue. More further highlights the idea of convergent evolution of knowledge; people will face somewhat similar challenges regardless of their place of birth, so despite the formulation of the answers being different, you’ll be able to appreciate recognizable trains of thought during these cultural exchanges. As Sitara ponders how her captors keep track of time, she eventually realizes that clocks are built into their tents—using the same principle as the astrolabes she’s familiar with. While her hatred makes her object, the episode makes humanity’s commonalities very clear. How does Abe emphasize that, then? He builds upon the same principles that both cultures did. In more precise terms, his boards are full of overhead shots, as if he too was using light coming from above to formulate his solution.
As we reach the next episode, we witness Sitara steeling her resolve, but also more organic extensions of the source material. Timeskips are rather common across Jaadugar, and the anime will often spare some time to showcase life around the protagonist at that specific point in time. As she begins blending into Mongol, much of this additional material focuses on animals, which play a central role in their society. This choice also directly connects with the big swing that follows in the story: Genghis Khan, whom we’ve seen more as a symbol than a human being, has passed away. The almighty empire is suddenly trembling, and the anime’s portrayal of this shift is this episode’s most inspired choice. Drawing from the mythology around his ancestry, a painterly sequence animated by Bruno Carvalho depicts his passing as that of a majestic wolf. This is then followed by a falling star, incorporating the main motif of the series—one linked to all this shared knowledge, as well as the protagonist’s name.
The main culprit behind this rightfully ostentatious delivery is storyboarder and director Tomohisa Shimoyama, who tackles events that will change human history altogether and gives them extra oomph through grand, sweeping camerawork. While it’s occasionally a bit excessive, the reason this episode and the next one don’t land with quite as much elegance is that the rougher edges of the production begin to show. Jaadugar is far from the most troubled productions you’ll encounter on television, but Saru are a chronically busy studio. They were under a genius workaholic like founder Masaaki Yuasa, and they’ve remained that way even after multiple leadership changes.
As brilliant as their personnel often are, both the in-house folks and the key freelancers who keep assisting them, they lack the infrastructure to pump out high-quality work at the rate they attempt. Dandadan’s emergency split cours wasn’t an unexpected occurrence, and neither is the fact that Yoshida has been publicly critical of Jaadugar‘s schedule and his workload. Because his standards are high and he’s not used to the messiness of modern TV anime, the chief animator has gone as far as wondering if everyone actually understood what their job entails. Given that this is mismatch of expectations is related to the changes in roles like layoutsLayouts (レイアウト): The drawings where animation is actually born; they expand the usually simple visual ideas from the storyboard into the actual skeleton of animation, detailing both the work of the key animator and the background artists., his words sparked industry-wide conversations, as well as wishes to work in more traditional and fundamentally sound projects.
Even in this less polished stretch, Jaadugar continues to pack a punch. The series subverts your expectations—unless you do know your history—by appointing the calm Ögedei as Genghis Khan’s successor, rather than the fiery Tolui. Then, it does so again by painting the latter as a perfectly supportive younger sibling, not a military-crazed attempt to usurp the throne. And yet, this stability may just be an illusion. Sitara is sent as a spy by Sorghaghtani, but in the process, she accidentally becomes entangled with Töregene. Ögedei’s sixth wife and first hater is struck by a particular expression: a calm, smiling hatred she has seen before. She goes out of her way to save the clumsy spy, during a tail end of the episode that noticeably raises the bar of quality.
As if to anticipate the arrival of one of the most dramatic, headstrong personalities in the show, Shinsaku Sasaki’s storyboardStoryboard (絵コンテ, ekonte): The blueprints of animation. A series of usually simple drawings serving as anime’s visual script, drawn on special sheets with fields for the animation cut number, notes for the staff and the matching lines of dialogue. More and Norikazu Ishigouoka’s processing feel much more intense than usual; vivid reds oozing with violence, tragic silhouettes, oppressive framing. It’s Töregene’s expression work that stands out as the highlight of the week, however. It was a specific smile that made her approach Sitara, so even in an episode that has to preserve energy, it makes sense that they went the extra length for this subtly stunning range of pain, numbness, and perhaps hope.
Although we pointed to some production roughness when explaining why some episodes don’t feel as polished as others, there’s also a dynamic as standard as what we just mentioned: prioritization. It’s no exaggeration to say that episode #06 is the most important episode since the premiere, a pivotal point deserving of a particularly focused effort. You could tell this was going to be the case even before the broadcast, with the announcement that the storyboardStoryboard (絵コンテ, ekonte): The blueprints of animation. A series of usually simple drawings serving as anime’s visual script, drawn on special sheets with fields for the animation cut number, notes for the staff and the matching lines of dialogue. More would be penned by Masashi Ando. If your knowledge of anime creators is limited to TV, that might not ring much of a bell. After all, Ando is a theatrical master, raised at Ghibli and once Satoshi Kon’s right-hand man. He rarely ever steps into TV anime projects, and if you’re wondering about the previous show lucky enough to feature him as a storyboarder, that would be none; his friend Yoshida can claim to be the first person to get Ando to agree to chart a full episode of television.
What is Ando like, then? We’ve written about him previously, in the context of the legendary studio he hails from but also in the way he once elevated a certain blockbuster director’s acting in ways he hasn’t seen before or since. Above all else, he’s a technically superlative animator who deeply values coherence and logic in animation. He’s not all the way bought into realistic motion as artists he’s close to like Hiroyuki Okiura are, but it’s clear that he wants animation to be sustained by consistent, though-out reasoning—be it on mechanical or emotional levels. As this episode edged closer, fans took it as an opportunity to bring up how that once caused his fallout with Hayao Miyazaki; a relationship thankfully fixed by now, as seen in The Boy and the Heron. Decades ago, though, the clash between his desire for coherence and Miyazaki’s more chaotic genius caused strife between the leading creatives behind Princess Mononoke and Spirited Away.
In more recent times, Ando’s most notable work is 2022’s The Deer King, which he ended up co-directing with Masayuki Miyaji while providing the designs, animation supervision, and part of the storyboardStoryboard (絵コンテ, ekonte): The blueprints of animation. A series of usually simple drawings serving as anime’s visual script, drawn on special sheets with fields for the animation cut number, notes for the staff and the matching lines of dialogue. More. It’s easy to draw links between that film and Jaadugar’s sixth episode, beginning with the fact that it may very well be payback to his pal; Yoshida helped him out as an animator in the movie, so it’s only fair that Ando contributes to a show where he’s leading the animation efforts. But beyond any causality, there are similarities between both works that make him feel especially fitting for this challenge. The Deer King may be completely fictional, but author Nahoko Uehashi majored in cultural anthropology and always imbues her fantasy with a historical feeling. After making a film about a story of hers, where different factions face an empire, featuring familiar cultural relationships with animals and even certain types of buildings, Ando was prepared as anyone to tackle a crucial episode of Jaadugar.
Töregene’s story begins 25 years in the past, as a member of the Naiman being offered as tribute to their allied people of the Merkits. She’s somewhat resigned to being effectively treated like an object, as her dolling up presents a good opportunity for Ando to show that thoroughness of his; the highly precise way her hair is braided may remind you that he felt compelled to draw reference sheets for that specific act in Your Name. As she’s shipped to what she believes to be a barbarian group, a specific cut inside a cart may be the first sign that someone is willing to tweak Jaadugar’s aesthetic rules. While even Naoko Yamada held back on her photographic instincts, episode #06 director Kotaro Matsunaga offers a more distinctly digital rendition of light—one of his sharpest weapons in the past. Be it in these subtle ways or during grander moments, lighting in this episode has a more modern spin to it. It doesn’t clash with the rest of the show, as it continues to build light on cel and BG layers in similarly nostalgic ways, but definitely comes across as more dazzling.
One such moment happens when she hears about local myths from her new family. While it’s hard to compete with Tomato Soup’s elegance, the anime’s striking choices of color, the way the river motifs are reflected in her expressions, and this newfound shininess sell the awe she feels. In the blink of an eye, Töregene goes from planning to escape to finding a place she belongs. Those with a keen eye may have noticed that, during the montage that conveys this change, we see her lying on the ground like she did in her birthplace, but more open to the world and closely accompanied.
Sadly, Töregene’s happiness is short-lived. As the Merkits move around at a worrying pace even for a nomadic group, the skirmishes they’ve been running away from catch up to them and she’s finally exposed to the truth. She was in fact given away to strengthen an alliance between different people to fight off Genghis Khan, but the Mongol menace can no longer be escaped. Her current husband consults the heavens about what they should do, in what may very well be the greatest scene in the entire show. His tribute dance manages to combine solemnity with raw emotion, really feeling like a desperate plea for her that is answered by a larger-than-life force.
Their response, though, doesn’t please Töregene. The Merkit leader foresees the defeat of their clan, but refusing to let that mean the death of their people, he appears to stage a more peaceful surrender. Their daughter Khulan will be offered as tribute to the Mongol empire, a familiar sad fate that Töregene hopelessly protests against. And yet, this heartbreak is only the beginning. Töregene witnesses the men in the tribe become slaves, and soon after that, their complete defeat after they secretly stage a rebellion fueled by hatred they only hid for long enough to protect some members of the clan. Her realization and haste as she finds out about their plan is brought to life by the legendary Toshiyuki Inoue, once again brought over to handle 2D horses that right about any other active animator would find too cumbersome to draw. However, it’s way too late. Töregene arrives when the forces led by Ödegei have already slaughtered everyone, under red skies that the Mongol prince believes to be the soul of the priest he’s had to slay.
Fascinated by her expression, Ögedei takes her as his wife. A short cut shows a horse crushing a bow, signifying the squashing of this rebellion of a puny archer tribe against the new lords of the steppes. Töregene can’t even be consoled by Khulan, who smiles coldly as she says that her foolish people had deserved it. It’s only now, after seeing Sitara down a similar expression, that Töregene can finally process how one could react that way. She may have lowered her head to remain alive, even had children with Ögedei, but she’s been waiting for the right person to stir the type of storm that can shake a whole empire. And now she has found her. As we’ll see in the following weeks, Jaadugar’s politics become increasingly more important, but the series’ interest in those remains rooted in personal circumstances like Sitara’s and Töregene’s. Nailing episode #06 was perhaps the most important challenge for this adaptation, and they’ve responded with one of the greatest episodes of 2026.
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PakarPBN
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